


a slow rising tide

by Anonymous



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Slice of Life, Summer, Swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26470609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The creek—not fast enough to be a river, Geralt thinks—is better fortune than they've had in a few weeks of trudging the Path and having to mind the heat. And the distant swath of water running beneath Jaskier’s idle humming is soothing, the both of them steadfast and reassuring, in their own ways.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 78
Collections: Anonymous





	a slow rising tide

Geralt hears the water long before either of them would ever see it from the road, and keeps his hearing tuned to it as they continue on. They had a ways to go before they would break at midday, as they usually did to dodge the peak of the scorching summer sun; wouldn't do to pass out in a ditch from dehydration. The creek—not fast enough to be a river, Geralt thinks—is better fortune than they've had in a few weeks of trudging the Path and having to mind the heat. And the distant swath of water running beneath Jaskier’s idle humming is soothing, the both of them steadfast and reassuring, in their own ways. 

Today the sun had risen early, the summer being what it was, and they had set out as soon as it dawned. There was a day’s ride left to the next town, but sweltering temperatures made travel slow and grudging, for man, witcher, and horse alike. Geralt had taken to walking alongside Roach to lighten her load. The dense, syrupy heat hadn’t quite broken overnight, and past daybreak it bears down with its full weight, cloying, without even a breeze to temper it.

Summer is miserable, Geralt thinks. Extreme temperatures are, practically speaking, no more than an inconvenience for a witcher’s constitution. Yet while the cold always seems willing to be staved off—by a campfire, or a friend at his side, or swathes of blankets—the heat, however, is inescapable. Sweat slips between his clothes and his skin like a lather, and it feels nigh impossible to draw breath in the thick humidity. 

Even Jaskier, with his preference to be overdressed for every backroad and village tavern, is down to the shirtsleeves of his chemise and loose linen trousers. Geralt almost envies him, walking without the weight of weapons strapped to his back; his dark leather sheaths seem to drink up sunlight and store it all in the metal of his broadswords, two torrid lines of pressure across his shoulder blades.

Gods, summer is miserable.

As if reading the general direction of his thoughts, Jaskier pauses in his humming to ask, “Do witchers have increased heat tolerance?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. 

He still hates it though. Probably still sweats as much as the next asshole too. 

Jaskier scuffs the ground with his boot, scattering pebbles down the road ahead of them. “Seems handy. Do you not even feel it then? Am I the only one who’s withering away under the sun? Shriveling like a—um. Slug that’s been salted? Wheatgrass in a drought. Well, that’s a bit contrived—blast, the heat’s addled my brain, I can’t even think of a metaphor.”

“Don’t think the weather’s to blame for your bad metaphors."

“That’s cruel." Jaskier knocks their shoulders together. "How could you. Kicking a man while he’s down and about to succumb to heat exhaustion.” 

Geralt squints at him, just in case, but he seems fine, if a bit damp.

It’s close enough to high noon anyway, though, so Geralt nudges Jaskier in acquiescence and they break away from the dust of the road, into the cover of the thicket. The undergrowth is a pain to wade through—Jaskier swears under his breath when his loose shirt snags upon a stray branch—but the relief of the shade is priceless: still humid, but several degrees cooler, and spared from the relentless scorch of the sun directly overhead.

Geralt leads them toward the babbling water, closer and closer until Jaskier can hear it as well, until the shrubbery thins out to a sandy bank that dips into a creek. It is wide and lazy, and by Geralt’s estimate, the water would reach their waists at its deepest. Jaskier crows his approval, thanking Geralt and the benevolent gods and the glory of nature, and other such nonsense that Geralt is glad to relegate to the stream of background noise that accompanies traveling with a bard.

He ties Roach near the bank, and she bows her head down to drink. It takes another moment to fish their waterskins out of the saddlebags to refill, with the vague idea of wading out to the center where the creek runs fastest and coldest. Geralt turns, and Jaskier has discarded his shirt and shoes, and is currently working on unlacing his trousers. 

Hm. 

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m going for a dip.”

It's not that nudity is a notable occurrence between them. Life on the road tends to absolve one of any prudishness rather quickly, though that was hardly an issue to begin with: Geralt has long been hardened to the sight of all manners of things, and unphased by the double-edge of fascination and repulsion that his body was usually met with; and Jaskier, refined like spun silk though he was, was a libertine, though he would say he was an artist first, and thus entirely comfortable with the human body in all its gracious forms. 

They had been unselfconscious from the start, dressing and undressing in front of each other, tending wounds, and sharing baths in cramped wooden tubs, cold lakes, and, once, a sprawling stone bathhouse in Novigrad. And—from glances gleaned over their seasons of travel together—Geralt can admit that Jaskier is a fine-looking man. He’s broad in the shoulders, and he favors an easygoing smile that seems to tilt the whole line of his body toward whoever it's for.

So suffice it to say that the heat has clearly addled Geralt’s brain as well, because his eyes catch on the arc of Jaskier’s bare calves, of all things, and can’t seem to uncatch. They’re nice calves. They do a lot of walking. 

At length Geralt manages, “You bathed just last night.”

“For all the good it did. Sweat clear through my shirt overnight.” Jaskier steps out of his smallclothes with a little hop and folds them neatly. “And anyway, I don’t think I need a wash quite yet, though I hope you’d tell me if I did, with your heightened sensitivities and all. Just thought a jaunt in the water would perk me up after a long morning.” 

Geralt tears his eyes away from Jaskier’s calves, feeling ridiculous, to find the man in question peering at him. 

“Are you not going to join me then?”

Geralt’s first priority had been the waterskins, and, if pressed, his second priority would be lunch. But the heat is thick like a vice in the air, without any chance of relenting til sundown, and besides, neither of them truly seem at risk of heat sickness, despite all of Jaskier’s carping. Surely lunch can wait.

“Why not,” Geralt says, and tosses the waterskins to Jaskier, who only fumbles slightly to catch them. “Refill those since you’re so eager.”

Geralt turns away from him to undress, and the unbuckling of his sheaths and boots is accompanied by the slosh of Jaskier wading out. He manages his shirt as well, before Jaskier tosses the waterskins back. 

The first step into the creek is such a balm, Geralt nearly sighs with it. For a long moment, there is only the mild susurrus of the canopy overhead and the water around them. Geralt goes under—has to practically sit to dunk his head properly. But it’s worth it to let the world grow muffled and small, to seal off his senses to everything but the minute vibrations of the stirring stream, until his lungs creak a little with want for air. 

Before long he resurfaces, and as he wipes water from his eyes, Jaskier watches him from an arms-length away. 

This is still new, though its familiarity came quickly, with ease: Jaskier’s soft regard, and the knowledge of his touch. 

Geralt flicks a spot of water at him. 

“Hey.” Jaskier frowns and splashes him in turn. 

Geralt drives a haymaker into the creek’s surface to drench Jaskier in a deluge, just for the pleasure of hearing him splutter and squawk—an admonishment for staring or perhaps a friendly provocation, Geralt doesn’t know himself and doesn’t fuss with the details. Jaskier, quick to recover, dives at him, wraps both arms around his waist in a tackle and goes limp to drag them both under. Once they've sunk to their shoulders, Geralt grapples his bard to flip them around—one turn of the wrist, a pivot at the hips to reverse their positions. 

Jaskier is cool under his hands, under the water, and thrashes at Geralt ineffectually until he deigns to let him up. When he gets his feet under himself again, still leaning against Geralt’s hold, his hair is plastered over his eyes, and he immediately—

—spits a stream of water right into Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt shoves at his face, not ungently, as Jaskier laughs and clings. 

“You’re a bastard.”

“Takes one to know one, dear.”

“I’m a witcher. What’s your excuse?” 

“ _I’m_ a bard,” Jaskier grins, sly. A droplet rolls off the tip of his nose.

“Point taken.” 

This close, encircled in each other’s arms, Geralt can see the smattering of freckles over Jaskier’s cheeks and shoulders, and the pinked, slightly-peeling skin on the bridge of his nose. He can smell the clean mist of moving water, and the sandalwood soap that Jaskier used last night, and, beneath it all, the warm saffron of his musk. 

Jaskier watches him plainly—must see the sweep of Geralt’s gaze, feel his inhale where they are sharing air—and cocks his head. A challenge and an invitation.

It’s easy to lean in, then, to draw them together in a kiss. To chase that smell up the wet column of Jaskier’s throat, across his jaw, to the thin spot behind his ear. Shivering at the attention, Jaskier tips his head back, and Geralt fills the empty space with one long press of his lips. 

“Mm.” 

Chest to hip, the line of contact between them curls with warmth rapidly, sweet in opposition to the cool clasp of the river water. 

Sun-backed skin. Sweat. 

A rich, syrupy heat, rising between them.

Hm. 

Summer is not quite so miserable, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to miss the warm weather. Thanks for reading :)


End file.
